Countdown, p.14
Countdown, page 14
Me.
Chapter 44
I SAY, “Be a nice guy, Victor.”
One of the men sitting in front of a monitor calls out something in a fast stream of French. I can make out only some of the phrases, since Parisian French and the Québecois French you learn in Maine aren’t exactly the same.
But I’ve heard enough:
The plane has arrived.
The van has moved.
And local detectors are recording gamma-ray emissions from the area of the aircraft.
Shit.
Maybe I’m wrong…but my gut says otherwise.
Victor spits out something and a heavyset armed man with dark skin steps forward. “This is Carlos Paqua. He will be with you and Jeremy, as your armed escort…and now we must depart. And Madame Amy, I’m sorry to say, we have no protective gear for you.”
I lower my pistol. “Yeah, I can tell that’s really upsetting you. Let’s go.”
Several minutes later I’m with Jeremy, Victor, and two armed men—one of them our bodyguard, Carlos Paqua—in the crowded rear of a black Land Rover Defender. Another Defender is right on our tail. Carlos keeps his attention on Jeremy. I have a feeling that if something bad goes down, Carlos will defend Jeremy first, then get to me at some point after the shooting stops.
When we climbed into the Land Rover earlier, Victor offered Jeremy a protective bullet-resistant vest, and Jeremy in turn offered it to me, and I took it and dropped it on the floor of the Land Rover.
Not practical, but sometimes my anger overcomes practicality.
Jeremy has a radio receiver in his left hand, with a hearing plug in his left ear, and he gives me a running narration as the Land Rover bounces and races its way to the runway, punching through low brush and saplings.
“An exchange has been made,” Jeremy whispers. “Gamma-ray emissions still being monitored. Aircraft is starting to depart. The van is going back down the road. Ah, it looks like—”
We break out and we’re on the runway, at the south end, racing down toward the north end. Carlos says something to Jeremy, but I can’t make out the muttered words. I can barely see through the armored windshield, but now there’s the Cessna just ahead. Suddenly a blur of sharp, heavy gunshots, one after another: BLAM BLAM BLAM.
Jeremy says, “The aircraft is being disabled.”
The Land Rover picks up speed and Jeremy says, “Van is on the move again…van is—what?”
My pistol is in my hand.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“The van…it’s not going down the road,” he says. “It’s coming up the runway…right at us.”
Victor barks a command and the Land Rover brakes to a halt. The rear door flies open and we all tumble out onto the runway. The same happens with the Land Rover behind us. Hidden high-powered floodlights click on from each side of the runway, and I see two things unfolding before me at the same time.
The first is the Cessna single-prop aircraft, shuddering and stumbling as sniper fire shreds its tires and shatters its windows. There’s a puff of smoke from the engine, then it coughs off and the propeller flutters to a hard stop.
And there’s the van, still roaring up the center of the runway. Victor and his men spread out, their MP5s stuttering out in quick three-round bursts.
I have my pistol in both hands, having brought it up to a shooting position without even thinking about it. The dark blue van skids left, then right as its tires get ripped apart. I almost want to yell out, “Stop shooting at the nuclear device, you morons!” when the van comes to a halt, rocking from side to side.
The airplane isn’t moving.
Four armed men burst from the brush and saplings at the far side of the runway, running toward the aircraft as some poor shmuck inside tries to open the pilot’s door. The French paramilitary squad obviously thinks he’s an emerging threat, because a burst of gunfire tears up the door—and him with it.
The van.
The van holding the suitcase nuke.
Harsh floodlights are on the van, and the paramilitary gunmen rise from their firing positions just as another Land Rover skids to a halt and more armed men bail out. Now a line of paramilitary men—Victor and others—are slowly advancing on the van, weapons up.
I’m behind the line of men with Jeremy and Paqua, the gunman assigned to protect us, and I want to move toward the van as well, to see what’s there. But my feet won’t move.
My feet stay still.
Jesus Christ.
“Stop!” I scream out. “Arrêtez!”
Jeremy says, “Amy…”
“It’s too easy!” I yell. “It’s too goddamn easy! Victor, tell your men to halt! Arrêtez!”
But the brave and well-trained French paramilitary won’t listen to an American. They won’t listen to someone not in their chain of command, and they definitely won’t listen to a woman. So they confidently march a few more steps, right as the van explodes in a mushroom of flame, smoke, and heat.
Chapter 45
TOM CORNWALL is outside the Olson Manhattan Preparatory School waiting for his daughter, Denise, his computer bag dangling from his right shoulder. The school has an early release today for an afternoon field trip to the nearby City Hall. A month ago—in a spasm of fatherly guilt for not being the best dad ever—Tom had agreed to be a chaperone for today’s trip, and he’s been regretting it ever since.
He really doesn’t have the time.
Still, all things considered, he’s in an okay mood. He’s got half a dozen calls and feelers out to various sources to follow up on his initial feeling that something big is stirring—something approaching 9/11 status. Even his mysterious foreign correspondent Yuri had given him a quick iMessage update earlier, saying he had something to share later. Before Tom left work, he briefed Dylan and got an optimistic grunt in return, which was pretty affirming, all things considered.
And yes, there is Amy’s phone message.
Just four words, but at least he knows she’s alive, and the heavy concrete cast around his heart that had been weighing him down has dissolved and gone away. He has replayed the message repeatedly, and each time he grows more confident. Her voice sounds tired, but not panicky. The fact that he received the message in the first place means she had access to a cell phone or a landline, either with caller ID blocked.
Which means cell-phone service or landline service.
Which means she wasn’t in some rocky gorge in Afghanistan or some desert in Syria.
A side door to the Olson Manhattan Preparatory School springs open, and a gaggle of laughing and chatting kids streams out. Broadway’s afternoon traffic is still moving and honking along nearby, and other parents are clustered near him—fellow chaperones roped in to do some volunteer work at Olson. They exchange sheepish smiles and nods, and Tom joins them as they walk through an open wrought-iron gate that allows entry into the small, iron-fenced yard.
There she is, and again he is nearly overwhelmed at the conflation of feelings that roll through him at seeing Denise, at seeing this sentient and breathing and oh-so-alive human come toward him, the offspring of him and Amy, and his feelings are a mix of love and affection and hopes and dread for what lies ahead for this eleven-year-old smart and tough little girl.
Denise’s colorful Vera Bradley knapsack is firm on her back, and her school ID dangles from a blue lanyard around her neck. She gives him a quiet, “Hey, Dad” and a drive-by hug when she comes up to him, and he squeezes her and says, “Got some good news, kiddo.”
My oh my, does that light up her face. Denise says, “Mom?”
He squeezes her shoulder again. “That’s right. Mom. She called me this morning.”
“Is she okay? Where is she? Is she coming home soon?”
He smiles at her and knows what he’s about to do is wrong, but he can’t help himself. “You know Mom,” he says. “She’s good at keeping secrets. But she says ‘hi’ and says not to worry—she’ll be home soon.”
Denise looks at him suspiciously. “How soon?”
“Soon enough,” he says. “Come along.”
There’s a bustle of kids laughing and goofing around, and a couple of the other parents try to order them into some sort of line. A sharply dressed, no-nonsense teacher from Olson stands at the head of the mobile line, holding a clipboard with a look that says some magic weapon is failing her.
In the confines of the small, fenced-in schoolyard, there’s some pushing and shoving, and then—Tom has to look hard to make sure it’s true—Denise slips her hand into his.
He gives her hand a soft squeeze.
How wonderful.
Tom doesn’t dare look down at her, thinking he might break the spell. So instead he looks beyond the yard and out to the street, and spots one of his watchers.
Chapter 46
TOM CASUALLY turns his head back to the school, but there’s no doubt: one of his watchers is over there at the corner of Broadway and Cedar, one block up, this time dressed in sneakers, blue sweatpants, and an oversize T-shirt promoting some rock band. The man’s steady gaze tells the whole story.
Denise tugs his hand. “You got your computer bag with you,” she says, sounding like a prosecuting attorney. “You gonna work while we’re at City Hall?”
He moves his head again, trying to act as casual as possible.
There.
Still standing.
Damn it, this is enough, he thinks. This is way too much, too blatant, keeping watch on him and his daughter.
“Just a little,” Tom says. “When there’s a bit of talking, I’ll sit in the back and check my email.”
Denise rolls her eyes. “Working on a big story, right?”
Right, he thinks, but he’s also so happy she’s holding his hand, which makes it even harder to do what he does next.
Tom leans over, whispers in Denise’s ear, “I’ve got to run across the street, just for a second.”
“But you’re chaperoning!”
“I know, I know,” he says. “But I’ll be right back, I promise.”
“Dad…you promised.”
He slips his hand away, kisses the top of her head. “I’ll be right back, okay? There’s a man over there I need to talk to. It won’t take long. Promise me you’ll stay right here, okay? Don’t go through the gate—stay behind the fence.”
Denise doesn’t say anything, and he says, louder, “Denise, promise me you’ll stay right here, okay?”
“Okay,” she mutters, and he hugs her like any old dad would do. Then, when a line of cars backs up on Broadway, he breaks free and runs.
Tom slides between two yellow taxis, is nearly struck by a battered white van with paste-on black-and-white letters for a plumbing service, and he’s up on the sidewalk and racing hard, his computer bag bouncing at his side. Yep, his spotter sees him—and damn, it was worth almost getting hit just to see the look of surprise on the man’s face.
The man spins and runs around the corner of Cedar Street.
Christ, Tom thinks, that guy can move.
Around the corner now, jogging in and out, avoiding the midafternoon pedestrians, and he spots the guy almost at the end of the other block, running like he just heard a starter’s pistol go off. Then the watcher splits left onto Trinity Place and is gone.
Running hard now, the bag constantly thumping him, Tom reaches the corner of Trinity Place and Cedar Street, looks around in every direction.
His spotter is gone.
Shit.
He stands up on tiptoe, craning his neck, but nope, the guy is gone.
Tom gives the area one more glance and thinks that if he was on his own, he’d spend a few minutes ducking into the two nearby high schools to see if the guy was hiding out there.
Or maybe he ducked behind a tombstone at Trinity Church Cemetery.
Or into that pizza shop.
Tom turns and starts walking quickly back to Denise’s school, thinking, Man, you acted too fast. You should have dug out your iPhone, got a couple photos of the watcher…that probably would have spooked him more than being chased.
But still, it was good to mess things up, to let his watchers know he isn’t just a helpless surveillance target.
When he gets back to Broadway, he decides to be a good citizen and wait for the light. Then he joins the other law-abiding people of Manhattan walking across to the Olson school, and there are the chaperones, and the teacher, and another teacher bringing up the rear, and the dozen or so kids eagerly waiting to get to City Hall, where they’ve been told they might actually meet the mayor.
Tom stops.
Looks up and down the line again.
And again.
Sweet Jesus.
Denise is gone.
Chapter 47
LOTS OF things come into focus. Like I seem to be missing a shoe. And the clattering sound of hail has stopped…and I know, uh, Amy gal, that wasn’t hail, but bits and pieces of metal from the destroyed van, landing on the runway around you.
My ears are ringing.
I sit up.
A man is on the ground next to me, looking right at me, wearing a helmet, a pulled-down balaclava, wide eyes, an open mouth and…
Nothing else.
There’s no trunk connected to the severed head.
Where’s my pistol?
First things first.
Where’s my weapon?
Need to be armed.
There.
Near a crumpled piece of metal I see my pistol, crawl over and pick it up.
There’s lots of shouting going on.
Where’s Jeremy?
Over there, on his back. His arms and legs are slowly moving, like a turtle that’s been pulled from a pond and tossed on its back. I rub my face, turn around, look at what’s before me.
The sweeping, curved line of armed, brave, and confident French paramilitary men are gone. There are lumps on the ground, two shapes crawling, and about two meters away is Victor. He’s on his back, rolling back and forth. I get up and limp over to him. His helmet is gone and he’s looking up at me, face white under the glare of one of the remaining spotlights. The other spotlight, tilted backward from the force of the blast, points up into the sky.
Victor’s talking but I can’t quite hear him. My ears are still ringing.
But I don’t need to hear what he’s saying.
His left leg is gone below the knee, a bloody, pulpy, bone-exposed mess.
He’s bleeding out.
I tug at Victor’s protective vest, pull it off, free two of the straps, and tie off a tourniquet just above the bloody leg wound. Otherwise he’d bleed out and be dead in just a few minutes.
I give the scene another long look.
The van isn’t there anymore. There’s just strewn wreckage, an engine, and I make out one tire. A flicker of flame comes from part of the shattered chassis. The blast struck even the airplane, crumpling the near wing. The tail assembly is broken and shot through like somebody fired the world’s biggest shotgun at it.
A couple of the crumpled shapes on the ground are now stirring. I can make out the sound of an engine, and another Land Rover is racing down from the other end of the runway.
Good.
Reinforcements and initial medical aid are arriving.
I limp back to where Jeremy is sitting up, opening and closing his mouth, examining his body with both hands.
Good once more.
He doesn’t look too injured.
Now, where in hell is my other shoe?
The Land Rover we used is parked where we left it, though it has a flat tire and one headlight out. Another empty Land Rover sits a few meters away. A French paramilitary man emerges from around the rear of the first vehicle, coming our way. His helmet and balaclava are off, and I recognize him as Carlos Paqua—our bodyguard. It looks like he’s limping belatedly to our rescue. I wave at him and he waves back, and I look at the pieces of metal, wiring, and plastic from the exploded van, opening and closing my mouth, trying to ease the ringing in my ears.
I look back.
Carlos is walking straight toward Jeremy.
Right at him.
He has a pistol in his hand, and he’s coming right up behind him. Jeremy is still sitting on the runway, examining himself, evaluating, and Carlos is lifting his pistol and—
I shoot him right in the chest.
Carlos staggers back, his vest protecting him from serious injury, but the force of my gunshot has surprised him, causing him to drop his pistol. Jeremy ducks and rolls and gets out of my line of fire, and I fire three more times, aiming for Carlos’s unprotected legs and crotch, and he goes down with a loud scream.
I go over, strip him of a knife and spare magazines, see his weapon on the ground, and give it a good kick. Jeremy is now right next to me, also holding a pistol.
“What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
Carlos is moaning in pain and I really don’t care. Men from the newly arrived Land Rover are out and desperately working on their injured comrades. I’m in a rotten mood; if anyone comes to help Carlos, I’ll point my pistol at him and tell him to go away and take care of the others first.
“You’re not the only one with backup plans,” I say. “If the van bomb didn’t do the job, Plan B was to have Carlos put a bullet in the back of your head.”
Jeremy takes in the wreckage and Carlos, who is lying on the ground, hands buried in his bloody crotch.
I say, “Somewhere along the line, you must have really pissed off Rashad Hussain. Am I right?”
He just nods, face hard and passive under the floodlight.
“Want to be helpful right now?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Help me find my other goddamn shoe.”
Chapter 48
TOM IS trying so very hard not to panic but he can’t help himself, he’s gone through the gate and he’s looking at the line of students, staring at each and every one of them, wanting to make sure that Denise isn’t hiding, hasn’t switched jackets or backpacks or is standing behind one of the chaperones or one of the teachers, good sweet Lord, Where is my girl?
